


Peace On Earth & Mercy Mild

by Meisiluosi



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Gone Wrong, Class Differences, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, M/M, Marwood the bookworm, Marwood the writer, Post-Canon, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Years Later, awkward conversations and awkward silences, cultural and emotional significance of hot beverages, family gathering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meisiluosi/pseuds/Meisiluosi
Summary: Marwood and Withnail interfere with each other's Christmas plans.They both suffer for it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few years before the events in [_A Sea Of Glass_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4919677/chapters/11287369), i.e. more than a decade post canon.  
>  Withnail & Marwood - and their relationship - somehow survived into their middle age.  
> They've admittedly mellowed down - but that certainly doesn't mean either of them is a fully functional adult.
> 
> (Reading _A Sea Of Glass_ isn't necessary to make sense of this story, but it might make a few references clearer.)

Marwood's shop was open quite late, as every other Christmas Eve. It had been a busy afternoon, as if half the people in the neighbourhood put the Christmas shopping off till the very last minute – and then they all decided to get a book. It was well past seven when he said goodbye to the last customer – a chatty old lady who wouldn't buy anything but who had helped herself to two handfuls of the complimentary Christmas sweets.

The shop was decorated for the season and fairy lights from the display window were illuminating it in a soft glow. He briefly considered leaving them on – but after a moment's hesitation he unplugged the cord and the shop went dark.  
As he began to ascend the stairs to his flat, a knock on the glass pane of the shop's door made him halt. A familiar lanky silhouette was looming outside, a black outline framed by the orange light pouring in from the street.  
With a half-frown, half-smile he walked over and opened the door.  
Withnail barged in, a suitcase in his hand and the December cold clinging to his black woollen coat. He didn't even attempt to stomp the slush and mud off his shoes.

“Your Christmas plans have been cancelled,” he announced as he put the suitcase down and snatched the last remaining gingerbread tree off the plate on the counter.

Marwood folded his arms and gave him a sceptical look.

“If you had any at all – as I'm quite sure you didn't,” Withnail added while munching on the biscuit. “This is delicious, where did you get it?”

“Courtesy of miss Jay,” Marwood said and couldn't supress a smirk when Withnail scowled at the sound of Jay's name. Withnail had always been stupidly jealous of anyone who'd attained any sort of permanence in Marwood's life. “Anyway,” he said, “I planned a nice quiet evening spent with a big mug of mulled wine and a book.”

Withnail scoffed.

Marwood ignored it. “And I was rather looking forward to it, may I add.”

“Bollocks, you were at best resigned to it. Resignation is all you do these days,” Withnail said. Then he flashed a wide grin – the kind he resorted to when he was trying to hide something behind it. “Well, none of that nonsense this year, I think it's time you had some fun for a change.”

Marwood raised an eyebrow and glanced at the suitcase. “Weren't you supposed to be on your way to Brighton?”

Withnail usually spent his Christmas at his older brother's house. It was a part of an unspoken agreement between him and his family. He'd visit at Christmas and be mostly agreeable, especially to mother – and they wouldn't pester him for the remainder of the year.

“Missed the bloody train.”

“You could always take the next one.”

“I missed it on purpose.”

Marwood sighed, picked up the suitcase and said: “Care for a cuppa?”

“Got brandy?” Withnail asked with a faint smile, already knowing the answer.

Marwood smiled back. “Always.” 

... 

Marwood put the kettle on and, as he waited for the water to boil, he observed Withnail observing the flat. He hadn't put up any decorations. He never did, he just didn't see the point. Not since he'd split up with Lisa and gone on to live alone.  
But now, as he looked at Withnail's uncharacteristically thoughtful expression, he found himself regretting he hadn't at least bought a few Christmas themed candles or arranged some fruits and walnuts in a glass bowl.  
Now more than ever, Marwood's flat was a blunt display of the solitary nature of his existence.

“Why don't I ever spend holidays with you?” Withnail mused.

The water began to boil and Marwood poured it over the tea leaves in the pot. “Because you spend them with family?”

“Why don't you?” Withnail asked.

Marwood had seen that one coming, but he still flinched. “As if you didn't know the answer, Withnail. Too bloody far, not worth the trip. I call. Much easier for everyone involved.”

Withnail sneered. “I wish my family let me off that easily.”

Funny how Marwood had grown apart from his kin over the years while Withnail had rebuilt his burnt bridges. But then, Marwood had grown apart from pretty much everybody, hadn't he?  
Well, there were a few notable exceptions.  
He smiled at Withnail and handed him a steaming cup and a bottle of brandy.

“Please. I never get it quite right,” Withnail said, handing the bottle back.

“Nah, you just love to be pampered, you lazy fuck,” Marwood observed – but he did oblige and added a splash of brandy to Withnail's tea. “So...” he began as he sat down opposite Withnail. “What is it?”

Withnail took a sip and winced as the hot liquid scalded his tongue. “Me and Greg have exchanged words. About mother. He...didn't particularly like what I had to say.”

Marwood responded with a raised eyebrow and an expectant silence.

"She's ill. Greg wants her to be treated here in London. She needs someplace to stay, I have a spare bedroom, go figure." Withnail scoffed into the mug.

“Ill? Is it serious?" Marwood asked.

"It's treatable," Withnail replied. "Her ailment isn't very likely to kill her. But I might. If I'm forced to breathe the same air as her for longer than three days."

The corners of Marwood's mouth twitched and he bit his lip in a somewhat unsuccessful attempt to maintain a neutral expression. "And...you said that to Greg?"

"Oh, I didn't stop at that," Withnail replied. 

Marwood's mouth twitched again. "And Greg still invited you over for the holidays?"

"Suspicious, isn't it?" Withnail replied. “I think they're planning something vicious. Like tying me to a chair and forcing me to listen to _Carol of the Bells_ in a loop.“

Marwood chuckled at that – but then he grew serious. “I think you should go to Brighton.”

Withnail glowered at him. “I think you should keep your opinions to yourself.”

“You know how these things are, Withnail. They swell and fester if you leave them. And you shrink from them until you have nowhere left to shrink into.”

“You're the one to talk.”

Marwood's look was more eloquent than anything he could have said. It made Withnail think, that much was clear from his prolonged silence.

“Have you called your brother that you'd be coming later – or not at all?” Marwood asked, sounding like a stern parent.

Withnail shook his head and Marwood nodded towards the phone. The petulant glare he got back was a sight to behold – but in the end, Withnail sighed, got up and went to make the call.

“Hello? Yes, it's me. I am terribly sorry, but I missed the train and... No, it's not like that. Well... Yes, but... What? Tomorrow? I...” Withnail jumped with a start when Marwood materialized next to him seemingly out of thin air and gestured for the receiver. Too dumbfounded and too eager to escape from the voice on the other end, he said: “Peter wants to talk to you. Yes, Peter, THE Peter, what other Peters are there that I'd possibly be visiting on a Christmas Eve?”

So he was THE Peter, Marwood thought somewhat bitterly as he took the receiver from Withnail's hand. “Hello?”

“Yes?” A female voice. Withnail's sister-in-law, then. Probably.

“Look, err...” He glanced at Withnail, who stood squeezed between him and the dresser, staring pin-prick needles at him and giving a rather vivid impression of an angry, disoriented fruit bat.  
He had to look away before continuing, for fear of cracking up. “Withnail popped by on the way from the station and told me he'd missed the train. I understand it's something of a family tradition for the silly uncle to arrive early for holidays and we both know how he is, so how about I give him a lift?” He ignored the violent punch into his shoulder as best as he could but it did hurt. “If I wallop him on the head and toss him in the trunk, we could be there by midnight, if I forego the violence, it might take a tad longer.”

The voice laughed. Probably Alice, the niece, then.

He asked: “Is that OK or is it too late? If you prefer he arrived tomorrow, I'll take him to the station and put him on a morning speed train.”

A few moments of hushed exchange, probably a quick counsel with Greg. Then the voice returned. “No, it is not too late. We will of course pay for the burnt petrol.”  
They must have figured out that if Marwood didn't drive Withnail all the way to Brighton, there'd be no chance for him to actually show up.

“That won't be necessary, it's my pleasure. If I don't get rid of him, he'll stay here and drink all my brandy.”

The voice laughed again.

“OK, deal then. And Merry Christmas.”

When he hung up and looked at Withnail, he was met with one of those furious looks that could scorch the skin off his cheeks – but he didn't flinch. Even at the peak of his drama, Withnail, when directly confronted, was just that – all holler, all glare, no bite. And he hadn't been at the peak of his drama for well over a decade.

“Don't sulk, Withnail,” Peter said. “I think you can finish that tea first.”

“I told you I didn't want to...”

“OK,” Marwood interrupted him before it unfolded into a full-blown tirade. “You're right, it's your decision to make. Here's the phone. Call them, tell them you don't want to come.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Marwood just shrugged. “Make up an excuse then.”

“I made up one and you ruined it.”

“It was a lame one, Withnail, I'm sure you can come up with something better.”

“To hell with you.” Withnail grabbed the mug and finished the tea in two angry gulps. “OK, what are we waiting for...?” he said, sounding perfectly doomed.

 

* * *

 

It felt safe and comfy in the darkness of the car as he stared out of the window at the petrol station shop door.  
He had to admit a part of him enjoyed the Christmas routine – to an extent. Greg tended to be civil, kids liked him and his stories from the set – and mother's nagging was almost bearable. Somehow, somewhen, the family had resigned to the idea that their dear little Vivian was to be the eccentric uncle of his generation.  
But the visits invariably grew more sour as the hours ticked by and by the evening of Christmas Day, he usually just itched to be gone.

Peter emerged out of the shop, wallet under his arm and a paper cup in each hand. He paused at the passenger side and waited for a bit, but he didn't look surprised when Withnail gave him an obstinate glare and refused to roll down the window. He shook his head and walked over to the driver's door. When he sat down, he was only holding one cup. He slammed the door closed. “Yours is on the car roof, feel free to go and get it.”

There were a thousand nuances to Peter's jibes and smirks. This was a good-natured tease and Withnail was feeling benevolent enough to take it as such. “Bastard,” he mumbled, but there was a smile to it, and he duly reached for the door handle.

Marwood tapped him on the shoulder and handed him his cup. “Just kidding. Here. Unless you want my americano. I'm going for a smoke.”

Withnail grinned and got out anyway. “I'll join you if you don't mind.”

Halfway through his ciggy Peter broke the companionable silence: “If you want me to, I'll take you back to London. It's an old car, breaks down all the time. We can always cook up a story around that.”

They were more than halfway to Brighton.

Withnail snickered and shook his head: “You took me all the way to a petrol station in the middle of nowhere to tell me that?”

“I think you're in a better position now to make a decision.”

There was a weird yet straightforward logic to it.

Withnail squinted at him. “What are your plans?”

“Already told you.”

And Withnail was struck with a vision of Peter, sipping mulled wine over some old edition of Sassoon or Joyce or whatever was his pick for the evening, in his Limbo of a flat, fading out into quiet obscurity, page by page.

It felt wrong.

Marwood took the last drag off his ciggy, tossed it on the ground and stomped the spark out. “So...?”

“I'll go buy some cigarettes and I'll make up my mind, how about that?”

Marwood just nodded, hopped into the car and started the engine to get the heating on.

Withnail wrapped his coat about him and ran over to the shop. “May I use your phone?” he asked as soon as he got in.

 

* * *

 

It was just after half eleven when Peter parked his car in front of the gate. “Wait...” he said as he began to search for something behind his seat. “OK...” He handed Withnail a heavy looking box wrapped in luxurious black paper. “Here. Merry Xmas.”

Withnail didn't take the present. “You mean you intend to drive back now?”

“Of course.”

“Bollocks. Get out.”

“What?”

“Out. You got me into this so you're going to suffer with me.”

“Don't be silly Withnail, I'm pretty sure your brother wouldn't approve.”

“He has. I called him from the station.” Withnail lit a ciggy and sneered at Marwood. He was beaming with mischief. “He said it would be a _pleasure_.”

Marwood's turn to glower, Withnail's turn to smirk.

“Come on, Peter...” He adjusted the rolo neck on Marwood's pullover, brushed off a few biscuit crumbs off his jacket and tucked away a stray curl that he deemed out of place. “You need to look a bit presentable. Got a comb?”

Marwood had the funniest feeling that Withnail was acting as if he was about to present to his family a new girlfriend – a feeling only reinforced by the way Withnail's hand lingered on his cheek. “No, I haven't,” he said.

“Of course you don't, you comb twice a week,“ Withnail sighed. “Nevermind,” he mumbled around the cigarette as he run his fingers through Marwood's hair in a vain attempt to make him look less like a campus hippie. Marwood tensed and looked away. Like a dog that doesn't enjoy being petted, it occurred to him, even as he inwardly cursed himself for cringing away like that. Withnail hesitantly withdrew his hand. “OK. Out.”

“Withnail, this is a bad idea. And I'm terrified of your mother.” Marwood had only met her a couple of times but he always felt that he was being viscerally disapproved of.

“So am I,” Withnail said with such melodramatic gravity that Marwood couldn't help but chuckle.

“Well, serves me right,” he finally admitted and pulled the key out of the ignition. “But if it all goes horribly wrong, it's your fault.”

Withnail opened the door and tossed the burning fag on the road before getting out of the car. “Shall I remind you whose idea this was?”

“Oh, trust me, Withnail, I regret it already,“ Marwood said as he was locking the door.  
  
Withnail shook his head and, with a disconcerting grin, he said: “No, you don't. Not yet.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to flowersaretarts for the beta!


End file.
